Braunstein's introduces James Shea's poem "Haiku" in The Paris Review Daily as well as Jacqelyn Davis's on Bookslut, web-based literary quarterly featuring reviews and daily columns."Haiku" is a long poem made solely from poem titles; here are a few lines:
that Jerks Around Like a Hamster in a Bag. Bashō
wrote a haiku for his students that he claimed
was his death poem. The night before
he said that for the last 20 years every poem
he had written had been his death poem. Upon
No Longer Recalling My Thoughts When I Was a Boy
Within My Father’s Stare. At Being Exhausted
wrote a haiku for his students that he claimed
was his death poem. The night before
he said that for the last 20 years every poem
he had written had been his death poem. Upon
No Longer Recalling My Thoughts When I Was a Boy
Within My Father’s Stare. At Being Exhausted
Chris O. Cook, author of To Lose and Pretend takes on James Shea's book, Star in the Eye with a dash of what the f? When I read Karyna McGlynn (one of my favorite poets) gave a Cook's book a positive quote review, I read some samples and acquired a favorite few lines from "Velveteen Intestine:"
When Edna Millay was 24 she cut herself with a stage knife somehow over the heart in Synge's Deirdre of the Sorrows,
then later became like a story someone tells about how
there used to be a rosebush in some certain place.
The following is one of Karyna McGlynn's poems published by Octopus Magazine titled
[to step off the el’s chlamydeous tongue]
and tell your rapist I would like a roast nectarine
spilled from the rucksack at the mouth of an oak
where every girl is naked & black in the gaslight
or to compare his close prick to a leaking faucet
or the face of a fingered nickel, or if in the full
center of the puget sound could he please just
put the plank out & let you step off the ferry’s
clean side unimpeded to say I am nothing but
sonar in february’s rimy trench or come tusk
to tusk with the elephant iced to the bottom
of the sea or the platform you step off in boston
for the perianth light of this violent thing you
say you don’t want to lick beneath his jackboot
Later at the thrift store today, I bought Harold and the Purple Crayon by Crockett Johnson.
Harold decides to go for a walk in the moon light and draw his life as it is happening around him with a big purple crayon. I stared at the following two layouts for a long time.
The sun was going down while I bought this book. When I approached my car, the trees off to the left, with whom I'd ignored the collective awe and horror before, became louder with several snagged plastic bags on their branches frantic about like unsettled dresses, like a coin operated laundry room with its corner bugs so feverish, its fluorescent lighting so green scum haunting, keeping you from seeing this fast.
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